


Truth Under the Mistletoe

by TheMidnightOwl



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games), The LEGO Batman Movie (2017)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Feels, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mistletoe, Writing Prompt, lots of feels, writing challenge, you better have a lot of feels after this i stg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 02:46:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13137471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMidnightOwl/pseuds/TheMidnightOwl
Summary: Expecting the Joker's usual chaos and cruelty, Bruce responds to a bomb threat only to find Joker unarmed and hosting a dinner for two away from the prying eyes of Gotham.  He may regret this, but he agrees to stay.  The gift he receives is more than he ever thought possible.





	Truth Under the Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> I feel terribly out of character right now because I'm not exactly one for Christmas feel-goods, but this fic was inspired by a prompt from a group forum I'm a part of and I wanted to give them - and all of you - a little Christmas present. The prompt was 24 hours to make or write something involving sharing. So, I'm sharing the love. Merry Christmas you fucking nerds I hope it makes your heart do the thing.
> 
> PS This is unedited because it was a 24 hour challenge so please forgive any awkwardness/typos/etc. This will be getting a proper edit soon.

Bruce hates the violence. Hates that it exists, hates that he has to use it. Warring for peace doesn’t sound like an effective solution, but Bruce Wayne, for all his resources and money, was not fixing anything fast enough. Change is such a slow process. If he didn’t do something, he would never have seen it in his lifetime. Batman scared the cowards straight, but he gave the more egotistical ones a challenger. Sometimes he wonders if he made it worse. Worse than that, he’s not sure how much he actually hates it.

He hates Joker. Of that he’s certain. The vile villain has taken too much from him. Barbara, Jason, his whole family, in one way or another. They’ve all been hurt by the mass murderer. There is nothing and no one that Bruce loathes more.

Fifteen minutes ago, he got a call from Gordon. Joker is in New York City, broadcasting on the monitor in Time Square that he’s got a bomb hidden somewhere in the city, and only Batman is allowed to find and disarm it. “If anyone else tries to rub their greasy little fingers on it, KABOOM!” 

He traced the broadcast back to its original source. He doesn’t tell Gordon where it is, only tells him to get in contact with the NYPD and inform them of his arrival and that he will take care of the clown. 

Joker is not in New York. 

He sends the Batwing on an autopilot round trip to New York City and back. Let the people see it, let the police see it, let them think it’s been taken care of without any casualties. The GCPD will not be looking for him, giving him free reign of the city to do whatever it is he’s really planning. Bruce will have at least some element of surprise on his side.

He sourced the broadcast to an abandoned year-round Christmas store, of all things. It went out of business a few years ago, when the apartment building to which it is attached went up for sale. The property manager kicked them out after a year, presumably under the impression that the shop was making it harder to sell. Years later, it’s abandoned but still on the market. He’ll be keeping an eye on whoever buys this building.

There’s no way in to the shop save for the front door. Not his favorite method of approach. The bell on the inside of the door is broken, making no sound. The floor still has a few shelves that looters haven’t grabbed yet. Some decorations litter the space, too. Little trinkets and broken ornaments. And a snow globe, deliberately placed in the center of the room. Finding no evidence of a trap, Bruce picks it up. The figurines are a purple-clad clown putting Christmas lights on Batman’s ears. Not funny.

He sets the toy down. His detective vision does reveal a life form in the basement. He recognizes Joker’s heat signature. No doubt the stairs are rigged with something. The clown is moving too much for him to get directly above him, so he sprays the explosive gel where he is. Backing up, he detonates and jumps down through the floor.

Joker is fanning the dust and debris away from himself, and coughing through laughter. “You always have to make the most dramatic entrance possible, don’t you, Bats?”

He is not in the mood for this shit. He goes straight for a right hook. It doesn’t break Joker’s cheekbone, so he needs to do it again. But the clown dodges his next attempt. “There is no bomb in New York,” Bruce growls.

“No, there isn’t,” Joker says.

Bruce stops. Joker never drops it right away. “Then the bomb is here.”

“There’s… no bomb,” Joker says sheepishly. Sheepishly. Joker. “I, ah, just needed to get your attention. I knew you’d know I was lying.”

He’s lying again. He’s hiding something. Joker shifts his weight, his body completely closed off. Bruce notices lights over his shoulder. There is a table set up with a tabletop pine tree adorned in fairy lights. Boxes wrapped in red and green, and black, purple and green form a half circle around it. The whole room is dimly lit, he is finally noticing the odd lighting color lighting. He finally inspects the room they are in. There are red and green ribbons on the ceiling, draped above red and green fairy lights running the length of the whole room in stripes, the only source of light for the space. Half of them now dropped to the floor from the contained explosion. To his left, a small Persian rug sits in front of a false fireplace; one of the space heaters with a digital log fire display. Next to it, a small TV with a DVD player. A small spread is laid out on two trays elevated a few inches off the floor: a modest meal of what looks like turkey and canned vegetables. And a third overflowing with cupcakes with little pine trees that may be candles. Above the gift table are banners that read MERRY CHRISTMAS BATFACE.

He just remembered it’s Christmas Eve.

Joker is still pulling in to himself. “Every year I see you out here on Christmas. You do know you’re supposed to be with your bat-fam eating turkey and sticking each other with the little bows on Christmas, right? But you and the little birdies are always out here. Breaks my heart, Batsy.” He turns his head, eyes on the floor. His next words are resolute yet somewhat restrained. “No one should be alone on Christmas.”

Bruce is floored. He’s in a different universe again, has to be. This isn’t Joker. But at the same time, it is, isn’t it? His sentimentality is usually expressed through madness and mayhem, but he is a sentimental creature. Save for that one time he escaped from Arkham Asylum, he has never targeted Christmas. There have been a few occasions where Joker wore a Santa hat to their fights. Sometimes he forgets that Joker is human.

He has a choice to make, and he has to make it fast. Which one is more dangerous?

Joker looks up at him, head still bowed. One red and one green fairy light reflect in his eyes. Eyes that look vulnerable, like he already knows Bruce will say no.

“Okay,” Bruce says.

Joker’s head picks up, his body coming back to life. “Really?” He says like a child who’s just been told they’re going to Disney World. He claps and bounces with joy. “Oh boy! Okayokayokay what first? Dinner? Presents? The Grinch?”

“‘The Grinch?’”

“Yeah, you know,” Joker’s full animation is back. The excitable person that can pour their heart and soul into even the smallest things. “How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Not that live action monstrosity, the animation. Oh, duh,” Joker slaps his forehead. “Dinner and a movie. Which first? Dinner and a movie or presents?”

What has he subjected himself to. “You think I’m accepting a box with unknown contents from you?”

“Oh, don’t be such a Scrooge, Bats,” Joker grabs the boxes and folds at the legs to sit down in front of the fireplace. He separates them by wrapping paper: red and green at his feet, black purple and green a few feet away. “By the way do you have any idea how hard it is to find wrapping paper with any black on it? You need some color in your life, sweetie,” Joker sings.

Hesitantly, Bruce sits on the ground with him. His sensors pick up nothing hazardous in the boxes. They look professionally wrapped. “Did you wrap these?”

“Obviously,” Joker chuckles, “you really think Barnes & Noble’s gonna let me near their table?”

“Point,” Bruce secedes. 

“I don’t know what’s in mine,” Joker says, “I, uh, asked Catwoman to go find something funny.”

“‘Asked?’” Bruce inquires.

Joker takes a moment to giggle before explaining, “‘asked,’ with a very, very pretty jade necklace I’ve been waiting to use for a favor. Plain boxes, didn’t see a thing. Well, go on, they won’t bite you, pinky swear.” He holds out his pinky, but awkwardly retracts it when Bruce doesn’t move. For the briefest moment, that look flashes in his eyes again. There’s a tightness in Bruce’s gut at the sight of it.

He has to remove his gloves to tear the paper. The box is light and undecorated. He breaks the tape seal and looks inside. Knitted black fabric. Holding it up, it waterfalls down. A black wool scarf, with two bold yellow bat symbols at the ends.

He looks at Joker quizzically. “Did you, make this?”

Joker nods and hums. “Even bought the yarn. Online. Didn’t think you’d appreciate anything stolen.”

“You stole the money,” Bruce deadpans.

Joker’s eyes widen, then he laughs. “Woopsie! Well, nobody’s perfect. My turn!” He removes the bow from the first box and puts it in his hair. Then rips the paper gracelessly and goes for the item. “Oooooohh,” he holds it up with a suggestive tone. It’s a purple and green striped ball ornament. “I know what this is. For a cat she makes a good fox.”

“What is it?”

Joker looks at him with a mischievous grin. “Ornament from the Rockefeller tree.” 

Bruce is too impressed to be irritated. Selina really can steal anything.

He goes for his next box, smaller and adorned with a bow bigger than the package. He removes it to get to the paper and pops the top off. A set of stainless steel throwing cards, engraved with a personalized card face. “B” letters topped with a crown mark the corners; the bat symbol in the middle is one of his older ones. 

“Just in case you run out of your usuals,” Joker sounds self conscious. “Or if, y’know, you want to spruce it up a little.” He giggles. 

It takes some effort not to smile, which is unusual. 

Joker goes for his next box. Long and thin, it looks like a shoebox. He rips it open just as sloppy. When he removes the top, he falls into a fit of laughter that ends up with him flat on his back. “Oh my stars, I’m starting to like this chick. Why-” break for more laughter, “-why didn’t y-” again, “-why didn’t you tell me she has a sense of humor?”

Bruce tilts his head, curious. “What did she give you?”

Joker sits up, wiping tears from his eyes. Putting the lid back on, he says “Ohoho, I’m not sure you’re old enough.”

Alright that’s a challenge. He swipes the box. Joker giggles uncontrollably as he takes off the lid and oh god does he regret this decision. Nestled in the box in a bed of green tissue paper is a purple vibrator. Curved at the end and flared at the base, it comes with a small remote with four speeds. He can feel his cheeks burning hot under the cowl and has never been more thankful he didn’t go for a half face mask. Joker is howling with laughter, back on the floor again and kicking his legs.

“Want to know why the base is bigger?” Joker asks, struggling to breathe.

Bruce pushes the box back to him and absolutely does not laugh with him. “I think I have an idea.”

Joker sits up again. His face is flushed from the strain. “She really must have wanted that necklace. Have you ever used one? I could show you.” He wiggles his eyebrows. Bruce rolls his eyes. 

Both have one box left. Joker insists that Bruce’s gift has to come last - probably just too excited to wait any longer, hyper bastard. His final box is thin and approximately the size of a short novel. He rips it open to reveal a black picture frame. He’s staring in amazement. “Oh my. I owe her another necklace.” 

Damn. “Can I see it?”

Joker’s eyes flick to his, and he grins. “You sure you wanna go down that road again?”

“You’re not laughing.”

“True,” Joker secedes, and turns the frame around. Dark grey foam cushions a single batarang. He feels his cheeks heat again, for a different reason. “She pickpocket you?”

“Doubtful,” Bruce says. “I have to leave some behind sometimes.”

“Mmm, lucky for me,” Joker winks, and sets the frame aside. His full attention is now on Bruce. “Okay the suspense is killing me open it.”

His last box is well sized, the sort that might hold a painting, and adorned with both a bow and ribbon. It’s heavier, and while he should suspect it of foul play, he doesn’t feel threatened. He slips the ribbon off, removes the paper, and breaks the tape seals. His heart stops when he removes the top.

Dressed in a gorgeous gold frame and clearly professionally preserved, is a black and white photo of himself and his parents playing tag when he was a child. He remembers the day so vividly he can still feel the sun on his skin and the smell of the freshly mowed long whenever he thinks of it. He’s so stunned by its existence that he doesn’t care who just gave it to him. He has suspected for some time that Joker knows so honestly it doesn’t really matter. 

“Please don’t be mad,” Joker blurts fast, voice suddenly very small and young. Bruce looks up at him in awe. 

“How did you” are the only words he can come up with.

The clown giggles nervously. “Bout, oh almost a year ago Ozzie thought it’d be a good idea to steal a bunch of guns from me. So I went to have a chat with him and - well, that’s not important. Anyway, I was curious what else he was hiding so I poked my head in a lot of places. I found this, ah, sleeve with a buncha negatives in it? Old camera stuff.” His gestures are becoming less controlled. “I know your family and his family knew each other, so when I saw that, I thought... maybe you’d like to have it.” He won’t meet Bruce’s eyes, even when his hand gestures to the box again. “The film’s in the paper somewhere.”

Bruce has to force himself to look away, setting the photo down delicately and leafing for the negatives. And there they are, in mint condition, looking nothing like something that’s been sitting stored in an attic somewhere for twenty five years. “I can’t see Cobblepot taking such good care of these with how much he hates my family.”

“Oh no, they weren’t,” Joker explains. “I gotta friend, camera connoisseur, he saved as much of the film as he could.” He looks up, at the picture, then back up to Bruce with a shy smile. “I liked that one the most.”

Bruce picks up the photo again and just stares, trying to memorize every inch of it. “I... have no idea how I’m going to explain this to Alfred.”

Joker chuckles softly. “You don’t think the truth would be fine?”

“Probably not, no,” Bruce says lightly. He can feel himself tearing up. Just the existence of this photo... it feels like being with them again. He has every single inch of every picture of them meticulously analyzed and memorized. Knowing them so well, though, makes it hard to remember them as people rather than pictures on paper. But this, this candid family activity, perfectly preserved in a single moment of time, Joker just gave him his parents back.

“Joker, I-” 

“You should see your face,” Joker sighs with pleasure. He’s sitting cross legged, head held up by his hands propped up on his knees. 

Bruce smiles and annoyed smile and throws a bow at Joker’s smug face. He deflects it with a triumphant “Ha!” And deflects the next one too. For his last trick, Bruce grabs the obnoxiously large bow and lunges at Joker to stick it on his face. Joker struggles to keep the plastic out of his mouth through his laughter. He tries to knee Bruce in the stomach but from the odd angle he can’t get enough force to so much as be felt through the armor. He does manage, however, to elbow Bruce’s arm hard enough to make it give. They fall over, Bruce catching himself on his hands, Joker hitting the floor with a nice thud to his skull. He laughs.

Bruce is directly above him. And when Joker finally opens his eyes, Bruce sees him. Really sees him. His eyes are not bagged or ringed in blue as they have been in the past. Not as many creases, in fact he looks the youngest Bruce has ever seen him. People call him a sociopath, but that is frustratingly untrue. This is a man of extreme emotion, capable of feeling so much in quick succession. Bruce gets an example of that speed now, when Joker looks up at him with humor still in his eyes, that shifts to confusion and comprehension and playful and self conscious and lust. All in three seconds. He always comes back to that, whenever Bruce gets close. His pupils expand further in the dim light, illuminated this time by the warm light of the fireplace and a single green fairy light each. The word beautiful comes to mind like a reflex.

They stare. Joker’s lips are parted, and the lust is giving way to longing. Bruce is frozen. He feels his own lips part and can do nothing to seal them again. Joker isn’t moving, either. Frozen in place, like a photograph, preserved in time forever.

Except there is no camera, just a memory. And time must always move forward. With a strange pang of regret, Bruce pulls himself upright again, slowly. Joker delays rising for a moment. Something in his heart hurts at the sight of Joker frozen on the ground, eyes closed, hands raised slightly like he was waiting to reach. 

“What’s for dinner?” 

Joker sits up with a melancholy smile. It doesn’t look right on him. His behavior switches again, but it’s not whatever he’s been seeing tonight. It’s the showman, the entertainer, the picture of confidence and self image. “Turkey. I make the most wonderful cranberry sauce you’ve ever tasted.” 

He’s on his feet in an instant, nudging Bruce with his foot. Bruce obliges and moves down the rug to sit in front of the TV. Joker sets a tray down in front of him, and his own to the left. While they’re waiting for the DVD menu, Joker pulls a bottle of wine and glasses out of seemingly nowhere and pours for them both. “Stole this from Ozzie too just to piss him off. No idea what it is but I guess I’ll find out.” He shrugs and sits.

Bruce extends his hand, silently asking for the bottle. He does a double-take at the label. “Château Margaux,” he reads. “This bottle is worth almost $15,000.”

“Ooh damn, does that mean its not going to taste like the black plague?” Joker flops down with the remote. “‘Cause I tried alcohol once and I killed the person who gave me to it. Thought it was poison.” 

“It’s a floral berry. Very-” he doesn’t know how else to say it, “-romantic.”

“Oh, well,” Joker is tapping his glass with his thumbs, “perfect choice then. Well, cheers!”

Bruce just barely registers the phrase before instinctively clinking his glass with Joker’s. The movie starts. It is, indeed, an animation. A very bare bones one. He was expecting something that would keep him here for three hours but this thing can’t be much longer than 90 minutes. Both of their plates are cleared quickly; it was a modest portion. Unsurprising that Joker eats tiny meals. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Joker sip the wine and recoil in disgust. 

The twitch of Joker’s hands does not go unnoticed. His shoulders are pulled taut, his fingers pick at loose strands on his pants, his teeth. The beams of bright colors and movement dance on his porcelain skin. Bruce looks back at the portrait. Really looks.

The release clicks open. He lifts the cowl up and off, shaking his long hair free. He runs a bare had through it to remake it. When he turns, Joker is starting at him in awe. The cartoon no longer exists. Bruce sets the cowl down beside him and stretches his legs out. Then he opens his chest, reaching a little with his arm. 

Joker stares, confused. His eyes dart from Bruce’s eyes to his arms and back. Bruce doesn’t move. Carefully, like a deer in headlights, Joker slides closer. Once within reach, Bruce cups him in his arm and pulls him into his chest. The armor can’t be the most comfortable, but Joker settles in like he was meant to fit there. His arm lays modestly on Joker’s thigh, the other’s hand over his. He feels Joker’s pulse in his long, nimble fingers. 120 beats per minute. Bruce parts his fingers; 123 beats per minute. Joker’s fingers inch down in between his. He closes. 130 beats per minute.

He’s not sure if either of them are watching the movie anymore. It’s there in the background somewhere, but all he hears is the pulse in his ear, syncing with the pulse in between his fingers. Maybe it’s vice versa; Joker’s heart rate is calming. When the credits roll, Joker tenses. Bruce surveys the area.

“What next?” He gestures with his free hand to the small pile of DVDs next to the TV.

“Oh,” Joker squeaks, then hastily clears his voice. “Oh those are… longer. I don’t let people leave in the middle of a movie, though.”

“Longer’s fine.”

The discs are switched and the film started at breakneck speed. Joker runs through the motions and curls back up into Bruce like the option won’t be there anymore if he takes too long. “Home Alone,” this one is called. He may have seen a commercial for this a long time ago. They settle back exactly as they were and for the longest time, the only time since they’ve known each other, all is peace between them. The false fire is warm, the food was nice, this movie is much more tolerable than the animation, there’s skin touching skin with no violence involved.

“We can go back to hating each other tomorrow,” Joker says, airy and melancholy “I just wanted to share one Christmas with you. You looked like you needed one. One away from all the,” he waves a hand about, “all the, y’know, us.”

Bruce looks down at the green hair resting in the crook of his shoulder. Soft and smooth, with a very expensive aroma. He is overwhelmed with the sudden desire to bury his face in it, feel the soft lushes on his cheeks, kiss the curls down to their roots and just breathe. His heart pounds with the intensity of the intrusive thought.

“Did we miss anything?”

Joker’s fingers twitch, still cradled in his own. A familiar air settles around them. “Well, there is one Christmas tradition we haven’t done yet…” That tone is the one that sets mischievous hearts on fire. He’s more charming than the devil himself when he’s feeling playful. He spins around, hand in his pocket, and brings something above Bruce’s head.

Mistletoe.

Joker’s grinning his smartass grin. He has to keep his expression carefully neutral without the cowl on. The challenge is there in his eyes. Will you? Because that is the real question, isn’t it? That’s always been the question. When it comes down to this man, what will he do? Loathe him? Despise him? Imprison him? Berate and insult and crush every emotion he displays? This toxic, destructive codependence between the two of them always ends with broken bones and, for Joker, he thinks, shattered hearts. All of this did not come from mischief and mayhem. It came from a person.

The confidence is gone. Joker’s expression drops back to neutral and just before he can turn away Bruce catches his mouth in a slow, soft kiss. Joker’s surprise lasts only a few beats before he is kissing back. No heat or desperation, just slow, soft gliding of lips and flicks of tongue from Joker that might be unconscious. He opens himself to it when it happens next. There’s no battling for dominance, no deescalation into wild abandon, just a gentle rhythm. Like they’ve done this their whole lives.

The kiss breaks naturally. Very little green remains in Joker’s dilated eyes. He’s panting lightly and flushed so red it’s almost comical. The corners of his mouth are turned up in satisfaction like the cat that caught the canary. He pockets the mistletoe again. Bruce expects a comment, but it never comes. Joker curls into his side again and the movie is waiting for them as they settle.

Behind them, the family portrait of the Waynes watches. A family bound together by violence and torn apart by violence. His love for them is a beacon in the dark when the fighting gets too hopeless. Preserved for him forever now is a perfect representation of their true selves. The mother and father whose love became a person. A reunion provided by a person that, in his own way, loves Bruce. Not like they did, but… it’s still love. 

He hates Joker. Well and truly hates him. But he’s beginning to understand all those times Alfred has warned him that love and hate are not opposites. So, tonight, he lets go of the hatred. He lets go of the violence. He lets it all go. Yes, even Barbara and Jason. Just for one night, he lets it go, to hug Joker closer and kiss the top of his head and play with his fingers the way he has never allowed himself to want. Joker giggles at every cheesy joke and every time Bruce kisses his hair again. The ridiculous thing has two sequels. When it’s time for the third, they lay down together. Neither of them get more than halfway before falling asleep.

Just tonight, they’ll share this memory. This one moment of peace, when enemies were lovers and Christmas was still joyful. The memory of his happy family, together and perfect and so, so deeply loving, shared with an enemy that loves him enough to steal it back. 

So yes, when they’re forced to part ways and the peace treaty is broken, Bruce takes the portrait to the manor and hangs it in his bedroom. Every time he looks at it, he sees his family as it was, and Joker as he is. As he truly is.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas and happy holidays! A comment would be the best gift ever! <3


End file.
